


That Stupid Music

by JadenSilver



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadenSilver/pseuds/JadenSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the enemy closes in, and there's no escape in sight, Grif and Simmons listen to their signature battle music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Stupid Music

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Fanfiction 101: Remedial Kickass by Bushtuckapenguin, on fanfiction.net. She mentioned a scene of Grif and Simmons surrounded by enemies, and this happened in my head. Sorry for the sadness. It had kind of been a rough day.  
> (Also, this is my first time posting a story to this site, so if anything comes out looking weird, I apologize. Still learning the ropes and all that.)

The smell of scorched grass fills his nose, mixing with the faint breaths of rain and sweat. He reaches up to wipe the moisture from his forehead before remembering that his helmet is still on. He listens to the blasts of plasma cannons mixing with the strange snarls and yells of an alien language, and the sound of their song on the radio. That stupid, beat up old disc Sarge always made them carry around. He had never admitted how much hope that silly music gave him when they were fighting. He hears another alien shout, closer than ever. 'We’re running out of time'.

He checks the readout on his rifle. '5 rounds left'. He reaches for an extra clip on his belt and realizes there’s nothing there. “Simmons, you got any extra ammo?” He asks, glancing at the other man out of the corner of his eye.

The maroon soldier shoots an enemy as it rounds the corner and throws his gun to the ground. “I’m out!” he shouts in frustration.

Grif looks at the man crouching behind the burnt husk of their warthog. Their base is off to the side, burning and ruined. Donut never made it out. He sees the red armor of Sarge, half buried in the mud. He hadn’t moved since he was thrown from the jeep, and it was too dangerous to run out and check on him. Grif half hoped that the man was dead. It’d be better than being captured. As he thinks this, the music cuts out for a second, but quickly recovers.

Another alien charges around the side of the car, and Grif uses his last bullets to shoot it, but it doesn’t go down. He clenches his jaw, waiting for it to kill him, but three bullets shoot past his head and land in the creature’s chest. It falls in the mud with a barely audible squish.

Grif turns to look at Simmons. The maroon soldier shrugs his shoulders. “It’s my back up” he explains, holding up the pistol.

Grif eyes the gun. “How much ammo?”

“It only holds five rounds,” Simmons says after a pause, “and I didn’t bring any extra.”

Grif does the math in his head. '2 bullets left'. He peeks over the top of the vehicle to count the enemy, and ducks as plasma rounds fly toward his face. The music plays on.

“How many are out there?” Simmons asks anxiously.

Grif can’t even begin to put words to how many he had seen. He just looks at the other man and shakes his head. The music hiccups slightly, the CD player in the warthog clearly on its last leg, but it manages to pull through once again. Grif zones out for a moment as he listens. 'It always sounded so ridiculously happy,' he thinks as the rain drips off his visor. 'I didn’t think I’d die listening to it. I didn’t think…'

He stops, looking at Simmons again. Simmons, who he sometimes hated more than he could express, but knew he couldn’t have survived without. Simmons, who had made the years in Blood Gulch bearable, just by being there. Simmons, who might have been the only real friend Grif had ever had.

“You know, when I joined the army, I never thought I‘d die like this” he says.

“You didn’t think you’d die surrounded by enemy soldiers?” Simmons asks sarcastically. “How else did you expect it would happen? It’s the army, that’s what it’s for.”

“No” Grif says, scooting closer to the maroon soldier. “I kind of figured that would happen. What I meant was, I didn’t think I’d end up dying with the best friend I ever had.” He finishes the sentence quietly.

Simmons seems shocked for a second, before answering. “Yeah, me neither.”

Grif holds out his hand, and Simmons looks at it, confused. “What?”

“The gun” Grif clarifies.

Simmons hands it over slowly. Grif takes it, a grim set to his face. They had heard reports for months now about the Covenant uprisings. Apparently, not everyone had been happy about the peace. Some of them still believed the teachings of the prophets. Still, Grif had never suspected that they’d make it to Blood Gulch. There was just no reason for them to come here. 

He glanced back at Sarge’s body. He remembered the man’s words as they charged out of the base. “Today is a good day for someone else to die!” as the older man had fired his shotgun at the enemy, right before being thrown into the air by an explosion next to the vehicle. Grif remembered minutes before that, when they had been trying to make it out of the base with the enemy on their tail. He remembered Donut, of all people, turning to face them. “Keep going” the pink soldier had shouted. “I’ll hold them off!” Then, shortly after they’d made it out of the base with the warthog, there had been the explosion. Donut had always been good with grenades.

Grif had meant what he’d thought earlier, about Sarge. Dying would be better than being captured. He’d seen what the Covenant scouts had done at blue base; the way the bodies had been tied up. He didn’t want that for anyone on his team. He didn’t want that for himself.

'Two bullets', he thinks, staring at the gun in his hands. He looks at Simmons, who he now realizes has been watching him. He’s glad Simmons can’t see his face through the helmet. 'Two soldiers'.

Suddenly, Grif knows what to do.

“It’s been an honor, Simmons” Grif says as the music slows, dying.

“Same here” Simmons says, only half paying attention as he tries to come up with some sort of plan. It’s hopeless, but he has to try.

Grif points the gun at his friend’s head, and sighs. “I’m sorry” he whispers, then pulls the trigger.

Simmons slumps to the ground, the sound of the gunshot drowned out by thunder.

Grif listens to the music, getting slower and more warped as it dies. Oh, how much he had hated that music. He couldn’t figure out why he was so glad that it would be the last thing he’d ever hear. As the last few notes play and it finally ends, he turns the gun toward himself. He sees an alien foot round the corner of the vehicle as he pulls the trigger.

The music continues to play after the sound of the gun shot fades. It only finally stops when an alien shoots the burnt husk of a car with a plasma rifle. It had gotten sick of the ridiculous human noise.


End file.
